Voir dire of inevitability

I should have known. I really should have. It's just the way my luck runs. And yet I never seem to take the lesson to heart; instead I continue to test the fates, hoping the winds will blow differently to shift the raincloud out from over my fortune, drowned as it is in absurdities and mixed metaphors.

They say lightning never strikes twice, but I sometimes feel that it continues to zap me repeatedly, figuratively defying the odds in singling me out and leaving me stunned and bewildered but missing any marks as proof that something strange and ridiculous and hellishly divine may have just occurred to me alone, just as it quite literally did nine years ago while I was out for a solitary stroll along the empty shoreline with a borrowed umbrella for a lightning rod.

Anyway, this week was nothing nearly that improbable. Instead, rather than postpone to a future and, quite possibly, equally bad time, I answered my call to Jury Duty in the hope that, as a purely numbers game, I would walk away unselected. And that was clearly my first mistake.

Naturally my number came up Monday, so I reported to the Jury Room at the Hall of Justice on Tuesday at 1pm, still hoping for a reprieve. Of the several hundred people sitting around bored, reading, napping, and trying to conduct business in absentia, surely the majority of us would walk away without getting called into a courtroom. And my confidence grew as first one, then two, then three courts were filled or canceled without me. Several hours passed and the end of the day drew near and one court remained, and obviously my confidence was mistake number two.

Of course, among the 75 or so people ultimately assigned to courtroom 17, I was still sure that I would walk away. And in fact, all afternoon on Wednesday, I sat in the back of the room, uncalled, as the jury box seats were filled and reshuffled. 24 people whittled down to 12. Come back Thursday at 1:30. Seats 13-23 are refilled with the computer's random selections - a wave of relief washes over me as it becomes clear that they can't let all those people go. Even when I was called to fill that very last seat, #24, I still thought I would get to go home at the end of the day. I'd seen who they let go, I knew how to answer the questions to be excused: Guns are bad, that hypothetical question is pointless, it's difficult to set aside emotion to consider just the facts.

And yet, one by one, the seats in front of me emptied and I was left to occupy seat 13. And despite going through the motions with another 11 people, the counsel finally had no objections and I was sworn in as Alternate Juror #1. Seriously?! Seriously! Not only do I have to sit through the whole trial, but I likely won't even get to deliberate! I know this because it's precisely what happened the last time I was called to Jury Duty three years ago.
Oh the suckage.

This is why I don't gamble with money.

Cheeky monkey

This has probably been around for ages, but I just discovered it and it absolutely kills me. What do you get when you cross two young tigers with an agile gibbon? Hilarity, I tell you.

I'm 33 for a moment

Welp, there you have it. Another birthday has come and gone, sweeping past like a commuter train, knocking me aside with its gusty bluster and leaving me unbalanced by the tracks in its turbulent wake while the litter swirls and settles, strewn about hopelessly.

How did I get here? Why didn't the train slow down? Will I still find myself bewildered trackside when the next one comes? Is it possible to have a one-third-life crisis?

Aren't you glad it floats for all your zestfully clean as a whistle parts

So here's something strange:
I was running some errands at lunch today and wandered into the giant Walgreen's up on Market St, past the huge Old Navy. I only really needed one thing here and that was some soap, as my current bar in the shower is down to an impossibly thin sliver that will break in half any morning now. Anyway, I wandered the aisles of candy bars, snow globes, cheap toys, plastic cablecars, hair dye and feminine hygiene products and finally found the soap aisle. But, all the bar soap was inexplicably shelved behind locked plexiglas doors.

What the...? I mean, a few aisles over were the unprotected razors, and in the other direction all the cough syrups and unregulated dietary supplements were free to be plucked from the shelves. But here in front of me, the Dove and Ivory and Irish Spring were impossible to reach without the daunting task of first finding a store clerk.

I recognize that this store is questionable-neighborhood adjacent. It's basically in the liver of the shopping district though, and visited by thousands of regular shoppers in addition to the local homeless population. And should the store really be upset if their biggest problem is shop-lifted bar soaps? I mean, shouldn't we all be encouraging the personal hygiene of the unfortunate souls who can't afford to bathe in weeks or months?

What's doubley strange is that in the Walgreen's a block and a half away, at the overlap of the shopping district's duodenum and the bladder of the Financial District, the bar soap was out in plain site, free for the nicking. That store doesn't seem to have a similar problem; like maybe stealing soap for a bath in the fountain isn't worth an extra block's walk.

I, however, was more than happy to cross the street to pay for my Lever 2000 without having to find someone to unlock a cabinet. But I'm still not entirely sure I understand what's going on here.

Goodbye Blue Sky

Somewhere along the line I became a TV junkie. I'm not sure exactly when it happened in the latest incarnation, though I definitely experienced a surge immediately after college, due in part to the complete lack of TV I watched for 4 years.

But between then and now, I feel like I had a life - I went to bars, I finished my weekly Economist and monthly Discover magazines, I went dancing, I met with friends, I went to movies, I went hiking, I made pottery, I got on my bike several times a week.

So when did all these things stop? I still want to do many of these things, so it's not like sitting in front of the TV is just a filler activity for lack of anything better to do. I sort of blame my TiVo, though that's not entirely fair just because it's made it easier for me to watch all the things I wanted to watch anyway. Some of it is the sheer explosion of good (or entertaining, if not quality) hour-long programs across the cable spectrum. It's shocking to me that I can watch a couple hours of TV every evening before bed (spreading the load out across the week) as it is, not even counting all the TV to be caught up on via the glory of DVDs.

The beauty of the DVD (and here, briefly, my life and blogspace again parallels Ebony's) is that you can watch an entire season in one red-eyed Ben&Jerry's-fueled pajama-wearing weekend of commercial-free numbitude. Which is what I have basically just done. Yes, the last thing I needed was yet another TV show to watch, but Netflix, in all its nefarious fabulosity, delivered unto me the entire first season of Battlestar Galactica. The modern, one, if I must specify.

And it is gripping, I tell you. I can't pull myself away -- and not just because of Jamie Bamber's biceps. We'll see where it leads, but this is how sci-fi should be done. Of course there are cheesy bits, and I'm totally a sucker for good civilization-ending epic disaster dramas, especially ones focussed on the human element told through well-fleshed out characters (à la The Forge of God [no, I haven't completely forgotten how to read, and thank you Joy for letting me lighten your move from LA by absconding with those books]). But they've also managed to throw in fascinating political and philosophical elements against this sci-fi backdrop.

Hopefully I can push through the entire series (so far) within the next couple weeks before Lost returns. And don't even talk to me about the movie situation - guess the remaining 469 items in my Netflix queue are going to have to wait till summer when TV is in reruns, perfect weather be damned. I've lived in California long enough to stop feeling guilty about staying inside on a glorious day; there will be more.

Because it means the molecules aren't moving

I didn't have a single good reason to move to California, but there are many reasons I've stayed. One of them is that I'm in control of the weather. I mean, in the heart of summer, if I want to experience staggering sweltering heat, I can head a few miles inland; or if I want biting chill and gloom, I can head over to the beach. In the fall, if I want rustling autumn-colored leaves, I head up north a little ways; but if I feel like bougainvillea blossoms and palm trees, I head a little south. When I long for ear-tingling cold air and snow, I drive up into the mountains. But I can always return to my weather-neutral city where it's perpetually 68 degrees. Or so it seems.

So that reason's been blown all to hell lately. Not to be a whiner, but California is not supposed to get this cold. Seriously. It's been in the low 30's overnight for a week now in the City. Hello? We don't have insulation. It's not like the plumbing's freezing, but I turned my thermostat down all the way while I was gone this past weekend and when I came home the heat was still on just trying to maintain the minimum temp. And during the day? Oooh, it got up to whopping 45 the other day. That's ludicrous. Even I, who usually make fun of the parka-clad wusses, have been wearing my winter coat.

It's a very strange thing to be bundled up in a coat and gloves, shivering as you wait for the car to warm up, while driving past rows of towering palm trees.

And in Tahoe this weekend? Jebus. It reminded me of Wyoming. Snowboarding was great fun despite the concrete snow and occasional stump hazards, but it was fucking cold. It was like 2 degrees overnight in Tahoe. The lake never freezes over, but it was sure contemplating it, let me tell you. And I gotta say I don't really miss the nose-hair freezing feeling of frigid air inhalation, the chill-induced finger-bending slowmo, or the prickly heat tingles of defrosting.

Enjoy your oranges, tangerines, strawberries and avacados now, because you might not be able to afford them for the next two years. *sigh*

Oh well. Thanks, Universe, for the reminder that my sense of control was really just an illusion anyway.

And I went down to the demonstration, To get my fair share of abuse

Because I'm well aware that I'm the one to blame for this mess, I try to make it a point not to complain about work or my job -- beyond the usual wouldn't-it-be-great-to-win-the-lottery-and-never-work-again talk (and anyone who says they'd keep working because they'd get bored or wouldn't want to disrupt their lives clearly doesn't deserve the lottery money). But tonight, as I sit at my desk at 8:07 pm eating a dinner of Cheetos and Famous Amos cookies from the vending machine, I'm really tempted to do some serious bitching.

This is my own fault too, of course. I'm the one who said yesterday, "I'm going to head home a little early today so I can get some stuff done in preparation for the weekend." When last night got blown all to hell and I was at work late, like an idiot I put it out there again today. "Today I'm definitely heading home by 5 so I can get everything done I wasn't able to do yesterday." Clearly this is just the bait fate likes to lunge for, clamp down on with its chitinous jaws, and yank away in the opposite direction.

And tomorrow will surely be no different. Because tomorrow I must leave at a reasonable hour. I don't really have a choice. I have to pick up a rental car before the place closes, and I have to throw all my snowboarding gear and weekend wear (unwashed as it will be since I obviously haven't made it to the laundromat before closing this week) into said rental car and drive to The Sac where I will be spending the night before proceeding to Tahoe for a weekend of winter. Obviously that means I will be late, unprepared, hit traffic and get no sleep.

But yay! Snowboarding!

Green Disease

So, it being the start of a new year and all, I did a very adult thing and decided to drop a lump sum into my Roth IRA rather than make regular deposits throughout the year (the better to earn interest, my dear). This, then, got me to thinking about my 401k.

Since they stopped sending paper statements, I've paid little to no attention to this account, which, it turns out is probably a good thing. Now, I'm far from a financially responsible person, believe me, but I have been funneling a certain percentage of every paycheck away since I was eligible to do so, and I just pretend that money does not exist.

Well, I dug up my login info and had a little look-see, and suddenly wished I hadn't. The problem is, of course, that this is retirement money and that I can't actually do anything with it now, unless I wanted to take a loan against it, which I'll only do when I decide to buy a house and/or have a steady secure income doing the thing I foresee me doing for a while so I can pay it back.

Anyway, so here I was, staring at my screen, salivating and calculating and gnashing my teeth. Don't get me wrong, it's not a mint vault or anything. But it's certainly a fistful of dollars more than I have currently available with which to, you know, buy a new iPhone (Mmmm, sexy Apple gadget.... alalglgllgghghgh....).

And I was overcome with this terrible greedy impatience. I actually started doing math. Math! for crying out loud. And here's what I learned: at the current rate of return, if I quit my job and ceased making payments, it'll take 25 years before I'm a millionaire. And that seems too far away and like still not enough.

What's happened to me?

Sick boys, naa na na naa

I've really got nothing much to talk about, but I'm trying not to let too much time pass between posts. That should be one thing I can do this year. Especially since I'm not exactly accomplishing much of anything else lately. I had grand visions of going snowboarding, or sorting through the mail pile, or accomplishing the heap of non-essential laundry, but sadly none of these things happened this weekend. It was a lovely weekend weather-wise, too, but rather than go for a hike or a bikeride, here I sit inside having gone through almost an entire tissue box and trying very hard not to cough up a lung. Again. Dammit.

Holiday quiet on these streets

Well, the holidays are over, the new year's begun, and things are slowly returning to normal. The office was still relatively depopulated, but all the crazy amounts of snacks and fudge and cookies and gift-basket food that was lining the cubicle rows has been cleared away, the grey and curled disaster-waiting-to-happen conflagration tree in the building lobby has been removed and its needles swept up, and talk has already turned to Presidents' Day in February.

Jen visited me this weekend (she'll have to write about her travels, though, because wow) and we went out to a comedy show across the street for NYE. It was a a great show and a good way to spend the evening. Yay! But now that she's back in LA and the roommates are back home and not working, the next thing I've got to look forward to is snowboarding with the family in Denver. Which is going to be blast, but just seems so far away.

It's funny, I rarely get wrapped up in the holidays (har har), but still there's a little post-holiday depression. I'm sick for the second time inside a month, the worst of the rainy season lies ahead, there's no day off for a month and a half, and I already know I'll be breaking my resolutions. And the discarded remains of the season are piling up curbside quite literally on every corner, in a sad display of wasted resources (though arguably getting chipped into mulch isn't so bad).

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin’ auld lang syne

New Haven. Spring 1995. Room 123 in the Kline Geology Lab. Reknowned professor Elisabeth Vrba lectures on Paleontology and Evolutionary Theory. I doze fitfully near the back of the darkened hall.

I trudged dutifully across campus for nearly every lecture, I listened, fascinated, scribbling notes with frantic intent. Yet inevitably within 15 minutes my eyelids would sag, my writing would become unintelligible as my pen left a series of parallel marks trailing off from half-formed words. I would shift in my seat and struggle to pay attention, fighting with all my willpower to remain aware and focussed, pinching my cheeks, tapping my foot, leaning forward. I'd guiltily calculate the tuition dollars that were uselessly dissolving away with my glazing vision and shot at an A. But it was hopeless.

The lecture would melt into the elaborate and ridiculous dreams from the grey area at the edge of oblivion, where tusked antelope roamed across my subconscious with herds of 3-toed horses who'd tell me of the wrinkled peas plucked by the titanothere which awaited me in Gould's rose garden while Mendel wrestled Lamarck amidst the precambrian muds. And in what seemed like mere moments, the lights would brighten, the reading assignments were being handed out, and I would close my notebook, rubbing my eyes and wondering what had just happened.

And so it was with 2006. I have just emerged from a dreamworld wormhole where the many things that have happened seem as though they may have not occured at all but for within the torporific haze of daydream. The lights are raised, people are collecting their things, 2007 has arrived, and my 2006 is littering the alley, scattering before the breeze.

So, here's to being enrolled in a new year. May the best of last year be the worst of the new; may it capture our attention, engage our imagination, thrill us, teach us; may it proceed at a comfortable pace; and may it be memorable beyond compare.

Oh, and...

Happy Birthday, Ms. Adams, Proph Prof Broc Doc!
Welcome to your early mid-thirties!

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we

I've been listening to Christmas carols all day today and waxing nostalgic. I usually don't get too wrapped up in the holidays because I'm not religious and I go all humbuggery at the commercial buy-a-thon. Christmas sort of melted into the distance with the geographical miles between me and my family, and it's hard to conjure the spirit of the season when in the shadow of palm trees.

But this year was a little different for whatever reason. I actually enjoyed being out in the shoptastic masses, grinned at the whiff of woodsmoke on the cold breeze, and reveled in the unusual frosty air (well, low 40's, but still). And talking to the family back home several times over the past week and hearing about the crazy blizzard and snow drifts and treacherous driving and shoveling and the nephews home from school and hoping for Santa to bring them an air hockey table -- well, it made me miss home and the holidays of my youth.

And I'd forgotten how much I love Christmas carols. Seriously. Even the religious ones. They're all tied up with tangled ribbons of bygone Sunday school pageants, church ritual, family gatherings and gift unwrappings, tree decorating, grandma's house, stocking stuffers and twinkling lights of warmth and peace. The First Noel, We Three Kings, and O Holy Night can totally make me a weepy mess.

The greatest of all, though (not counting "What Do You Get a Wookie For Christmas When He Already Owns a Comb" from the Christmas in the Stars: Star Wars Christmas Album which I'm praying Dad still has on vinyl in his basement somewhere because that thing has got to be worth some money), will forever be John Denver and the Muppets, singing directly to me.

The season is upon us now,
a time for gifts and giving.
And as the year draws to its close,
I think about my living.
Christmas time when I was young,
the magic and the wonder.
But colors dull and candles dim
and dark my standing under.

Oh, little angel, shining light,
you’ve set my soul to dreaming.
You’ve given back my joy in life,
you filled me with new meaning.

A savior King was born that day,
a baby just like you.
And as the Magi came with gifts,
I come with my gift too.
That peace on earth fills up your time
and brotherhood surrounds you,
That you may know the warmth of love
and wrap it all around you.

It’s just a wish, a dream I’m told
from days when I was young,
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.
Merry Christmas little Zachary, Merry Christmas everyone.

I feel the Earth. Move. Under my feet

Huh. For a while this week I was relieved I was not trying to travel home for Christmas what with the 3-day closure of DIA, the thousands of strandings, and the tales of my family digging out from the Holiday Blizzard of '06. But now I'm not so sure...

This morning brought with it the third (third!) earthquake in less than 4 days. Yes, they've all been small -- minor really. But they've still made my apartment creak and shudder, rattling my shelves, windows and nerves. And weirdly, they've all been centered in the same spot on the Hayward Fault, directly beneath Berkeley on the other side of the Bay, maybe 12 miles away as the crow flies.

First was Wednesday evening just as we were leaving work. Then last night as I was sitting in my living room playing Guitar Hero -- until the couch abruptly lurched, that is. And now again this morning as I lounged in bed reading. Two 3.7s and a 3.5.

Are these little readjustments that are relieving some pressure along the fault and therefore decreasing the liklihood of a larger earthquake, or are they preliminary foreshocks, as it were, adding to the mounting strain and increasing the odds for the Big One? An occasional tremblor is interesting enough and to be expected in these parts, but given that I've just felt more in 63 hours than I had in the preceding two years, well, it makes one wonder. The Christmas Quake of '06 has a certain headline papery inevitability to it.

In any case, I'm getting dressed and going to replenish my water and canned-goods supply.

What a way to make a living

I'm not going to say a whole lot about work here because I suspect there are some folks from my office who have happened upon my blogosphere coordinates. Not that that's a problem, really, but it does force me to be clear which side of the line I'm on between non-specific venting and disparaging commentary. Because the latter is what has gotten some people into trouble in the past. Such as my roommate. Ostensibly.

Anyway, for the record, this is the former: general griping that we all do about our jobs because we'd frankly rather win the lotto and be sipping mimosas aboard our yacht on the way to Santorini than slugging grande non-fat no-whip mocha lattes while slumped over a keyboard.

It's been a long week, for a short week (we get Friday off! Hooray!). Because schedule was the primary driving factor over quality on a particular Dilbertesque project (into which I was thrust at the tail end with very little familiarity), we rolled into production some new software and systems this week - right before the holidays when everyone's gone and when it'd be very difficult to recover from potential problems. But whatever. The upshot was that I was at work until 3am this morning, and back at the office at 10am. And I'm tired.

I'm not sure what my point here was. I've gotten carried away thinking of sailing around the Mediterranean. Must remember to buy a lottery ticket tomorrow...

Pay it backward

I was at IKEA this weekend, which isn't terribly interesting in and of itself. Nor was the drive (in a City Carshare car) there or home. I don't often drive across the Bay Bridge to the East Bay, and today coming home was a good reminder why: the traffic at the toll booths! Ugh!

I also screwed up which lane to get in and had to cut over sort of late in the game, cutting off a lot of schlubs who'd already been in stop and go for a half mile. I felt really bad about it and was thrilled that a car paused to let me in -- not something I'm likely to have done were I in the other lane. So the karmic guilt kicked in and I suddenly decided I needed to do something nice in return.

Fortunately the opportunity was right there. I glanced in the rearview a few times and an unremarkable middle-aged couple in the pickup that let me in was still behind me. So I paid their bridge toll. It was only $3, but I was surprised how good it made me feel. And, though I sort of hoped it would be regarded as a mysterious random act of holiday season kindness, they swerved dangerously through traffic to catch up to me on the Bridge and wave and smile their frantic appreciation.

Too bad there's not a good reward system for thoughtful drivers -- it might reduce the number of jerkweeds on the road. But yay! Not everyone out there is a maniac.

Miracle on Lombard Street

I happened to look at my Driver's License a few weeks ago (it's surprising how rarely that happens for something I have on me at all times) and had a sudden panic attack -- it was set to expire on my birthday in January. Now, clearly that's a ways in the future but my horror didn't stem from the deadline so much as the realization I was going to have to deal with the DMV.

Oh that universally-hated level of hell that is the DMV, with its interminable queues, ESL-speaking clerks, and frustrations galore. I have painful memories of getting my CA license the first time when my WY one finally expired. It was 2001, I think -- at least that's what my old license says. There aren't too many Wyoming driver's licenses in the world, and I was disinclined to give up mine, though even I am a little surprised I was here for 4 1/2 years before giving in.

So at the DMV, due to a weird California rule requiring you to get a CA license within 10 days of moving here or getting a job, I had to lie first of all, and I'm a terrible liar. Thankfully I did not have to take the driving test back then, and I passed the written exam relatively easily. But there was also the issue of establishing my citizen status, since apparently a license from another state is not adequate, and my expired passport still had a photo of me as a 1st grader. Try explaining to a Russian woman that I'm really a US citizen despite my birth certificate being written in German, and that, since it wasn't stated anywhere that the State Department papers explaining this had to notorized or original, the copy I had ought to suffice because otherwise it'd be months before I could get an official copy through normal channels.

Anyhoodle, I didn't relish the thought of dealing with that place in any way, so I immediately went to the internet to figure out how to renew online or via mail. Frustratingly, it said I could renew online but only after they'd sent me an official registration number. But I could not request this number nor would they explain when it might be sent if it was to come at all.

Low and behold, last Monday my number arrived in the mail all on its own, so online I went. The process was as easy as confirming my address, entering the number, verifying nothing about my record, eyesight or medical history had changed, and hitting 'submit'. It made no claims about when my new license would arrive, leaving me to imagine the worst. And that was that.

I shit you not, my new license arrived today. Four days later! I'm stunned. Shocked. Awed, even. When doing it originally, it took over a month to arrive.

Also, it's good until frickin' 2012. !!! I mean, I've seen dates past 2009 in print before, but it all seems so far in the distant future as to not concern me much -- Arctic ice gone by 2040, people on the moon in 2020, Bay Bridge complete in 2013. Whatev. But shit, I'll have this same piece of plastic in 2012! 5 years doesn't seem like a long time, but damn does 2012 seem like forever from now. Yet it's not - it's right around the corner. Right there, in print, on my freshly-renewed pain-free driver's license.

Darlin' it's better down where it's wetter

Welp, it's that time of year again. The company holiday party was Friday night, so I dug out the suit and a fancy tie and joined in the milling about with a napkin of food in one hand and a weak drink in the other.

This year's shindig, like last year's, was only a few blocks from my apartment, which I always appreciate when it's time to stumble home. But unlike last year, I did not throw a pre-party get-together since my apartment's a mess and I've been knocked out the past two weeks by the plague that everyone seems to have (cough, wheeze). I'm feeling somewhat better, though, thanks for asking.

Anyway, this year's party was at the aquarium down at Pier 39 on Fisherman's Wharf, which was pretty interesting. It pales in comparison to Monterey's aquarium (obviously), but was a fun place to hold a party, what with the drinking while sharks swim overhead, the dessert tray nearly falling into the ray petting tank, and such. I'll admit it was a little weird, however, to be staring at the crustacean tank while chowing down on crabcakes.

Also, the rainy season has kicked into high gear, so despite the ginormous umbrella, by the time we finally found the proper entrance, we basically looked as though we'd been in one of the exhibits.

The thing is, this was my 9th office holiday party. Ok, actually I missed 3 in there for various reasons, so it was really only the 6th that I attended, but still. The last 3 years I've had a suicide pact of sorts with a coworker who has been along the entire ride with me, where we both committed to not being around come the next party, or else. This year he finally ditched the party, if not the company, so I'm still alive. But I'm telling y'all this right now - if this time next year I even have the option of attending the same company's soirée, kill me. Just shoot me in the head, dead.

Ticking away the moments

I've reached a milestone today and I'm not sure what to do about it. Do I celebrate or quietly weep?

You see, as of today, I have been drawing breath for 12,000 days, no shit. The sun is sinking on my 12,000th day in this existence, and what have I got to show for it? Well, I'm sitting on my bed trying to decide if I should finally shower today or if maybe a nap is the best way to put off doing my laundry.

Dude. 12,000 is a lot of days. Seriously.

Sometimes I wish I was wrong

Well, as best as I can tell, nothing has been touched in the kitchen. 24 hours later and the piece of turkey is still sitting out, the oven door is open, and the remains of the glass pan still litter the area. And I'm pretty sure neither of them went to work today, though they're not here now. The hell?